


chaconne

by orphan_account



Category: Big Time Rush (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 16:08:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6291055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it's always been just like dancing</p>
            </blockquote>





	chaconne

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skyline](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/gifts).



> Thanks to my mother playing Tchaikovsky's swan lake the whole day through, I am left with my imagination running wild.  
> This part was later used for another story, in an entirely different fandom (it got weird and i got carried away), but I thought I'd still upload it.

  
This is the long version:

 

* * *

 

Home is amidst the neon lights and heaps of glitter across the floor. And my silhouette stutters in time with the thumping bass that rattles by bones, and I fold the rhythm into my spine; cunning, alive, and it glorifies the movements of my hips.   
And I can see your outlines, glowing-in-the-dark and incandescent with bedazzled bliss, as you ripple towards me. 

And when you press your back against my chest, I am lost in the curve of your spine and the protrusion of your shoulderblades.   
  
There's a desert heat building up beneath the hem of my shirt, and solitary drops can't escape gravity's grasp as they trickle down my skin. In any other context, I would have complained, but the way you camber between my arms and move like my hands on your hips are home keeps me from saying anything. When you lean back and your head falls heavy on my shoulder, your lips inches away from my ear, the curving of my neck is purely routine; a careful glissade towards the prince with his crossbow.   
And I am all swan and you are all hunter and we are alone on this lake and i saute down until your lips meet mine. 

I am on fire. The moment your lips touch mine, and your tongue grazes the curve of my lower lip, I am on fire.   
And you sigh, and I swallow it down, and the taste of alcohol lingers as we part. There are words, forming on the tip of my tongue, but I feel lost and unable to breath, and I swallow it down. They nestle down beneath the arch of my throat, growing fangs and lurking with desperation, as it claws down into the thickness behind my oesophagus. 

When you breathe in my ear, I fall in love.

When you close the gap again, I am tossed into the Atlantic head-first and screaming, but suddenly I'm not screaming any more, as the sea salt fills my lungs and my hollow life is set ablaze with a new purpose.   
And in-between the wash-down of neon halogen lights that stretch out above us and the feeling of your lips on mine, I am gone.   
And you move like smoke, like peeling orange skin and all the other broken, cataclysmic metaphors fed to me by the pseudo-poetry in my mind, and you are every word for beautiful.   
My hand closes around yours, and your wrists are neon-wired. You lean in, and contort your body to close the gap the form of our bodies allow. And I want to set off fireworks - red, white, blue - inside your veins and underneath the thin skin of your eyelid. I want to turn the broken galaxies that formed your cheekbones into decorative and gory explosions.

And your hand grabs mine as you pirouette out of my reach, dragging me along towards the edge of the dancefloor, and as we walk out the door I revel and bathe in the feeling it sends shivering down my spine.   
  
We are reckless, raging, furious young adults, comets on collision course, bedazzled and embellished by the happiness that gurgles through our livers. And we pivot like ballet dancers, careful and careless and I can't pinpoint what you seem to feel as your intentions seem to alter with every tip of your toes, but I will go through with every single one of them.   
  
Stumbling through the door of our shared home, you look up at me, and there's a grin cutting at the edges of your mouth, and I swear I have never been more afraid of something as genuine as the curve of your lips. But you kiss me, and your hands lock behind my back, and I am left stripped bare of every thought that resembles doubt.   
And the point of this all is that you are in front of me and on top of me and when your fingers curl underneath the hem of your shirt before taking it off I think I hate you.   
I hate the shivers that race down the heated trail of your fingertips and I hate the romance that boils my blood all 103 degrees, but lately I've been having a desperate streak that's meters wide and I've been skittish about the level of grenade-launched adoration I fling your way.   
  
When my breath breaks against the cutthroat marrow of your cheekbones, and your brown hair captures the light just the right way, I am an astronaut. Blinded by the halo of the light that repaints itself inside the sheen of sweat that coats your skin all rings-of-Saturn. And the moment your lips catch mine again, I am left with the galaxy you hold underneath your tongue, a map of Neptune, the rumbling roar of an engine and astronaut boots - but no pilot. 

And your hands are on my side and they are travelling down and then, and then, _and then_

 

* * *

 

This is the short :

 

* * *

 

I love you.   
And it feels like dancing. It's always been just like dancing. 


End file.
